


A Star That Lights The Road

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Hell Dean, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thinks he finally knows the angel's plans for him. To be their foot soldier in a war that can't possibly be won. And when he can't do it? Well, there's every chance he'll be thrown back downstairs. Sam already lost his brother once and he won't let it happen again, and he won't let Dean keep fading before his eyes. CURTAIN FIC!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Star That Lights The Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn-reversebang and all inspired by the stunning artwork of littlepistols (aka cackling-madly), which you can view [HERE](http://littlepistols.livejournal.com/9473.html). Thank you to alexisjane who was my beta reader and actually made this fic work. I actually really, really, really enjoyed writing this one. Maybe torture scenes are my niche? Mwahaha.
> 
> Involves a whole lot of angst, graphic flashbacks of Hell and torture, references to alcoholism and smoking.

_and maybe i could be the one  
to ride into the setting sun tonight  
and just drive._  
\-- Drive by Alistair Griffin.

 

  
  
The hospital smells like disinfectant, mixed with the overbearing smell of flowery perfume as a woman in a bright orange dress rushes by. Sam manages to move out of the way just in time to keep her from colliding with his two coffee cups. She doesn’t so much as throw a glance his way as she rounds the corner.  
  
Castiel is gone. He wouldn’t talk to Sam again, at least not anything beyond “I’m sorry”, before Sam was left standing in the corridor with an empty space in front of him. Alone again. Dean is still on a hospital bed with bandages wrapped around his head and tubes on his face. They’re not  _in_ his body, the doctor assured. Dean just needs oxygen. Sam thinks his brother is breathing fine, but apparently the medical professionals think otherwise. They say Dean has a concussion, was borderline for going into shock, and extremely dehydrated. Sam’s not sure if the last has anything to do with Alastair, but decides to bite his tongue and let the doctor do her job. It wouldn’t hurt Dean to have proper medical treatment for once, considering how many home botch-jobs they’ve managed over the years.  
  
He knocks once at the door of Dean’s room before letting himself in, knowing there would be no response from Dean if he just waited. Dean’s half-propped up in bed, facing away from Sam. The machines at his side are beeping and buzzing quietly, and Sam’s just surprised Dean hasn’t pulled them out yet. He shuts the door with a little more pressure than strictly necessary, but Dean doesn’t do so much as flinch.  
  
“Brought you coffee,” Sam says, making his way to the bed. “Not sure if it’s  _allowed_ , but...”  
  
He rounds the bed and sits in the supplied chair that sinks under his weight. He can see Dean’s face now, but Dean’s not letting their eyes meet. Sam sighs and holds one of the coffee cups out to him anyway.  
  
“Latte. Decided your normal triple espresso probably won’t go over well with the dehydration.”  
  
Dean doesn’t respond. Sam sits the coffee on the floor and takes a sip of his own, but it's too hot and burns his tongue. He puts it next to the other.  
  
“You gonna talk to me?” Sam asks. “What did Cas say when he was here?”  
  
If he looks at Dean from the right angle he can see marks on his face that look like the tracks of tears. He looks away from them and instead looks around the hospital room that looks no different than all those he’s been in before. This might be a little bigger, so he gives Wyoming props for that. The machines are also quieter, so he decides they have better technology. Good. It’s good that Dean’s here.  
  
“He said I’m screwed.” Dean’s voice is hoarse and he follows up his words with a cough.  
  
Sam’s gaze settles back on his brother who’s still facing away. “Why’d he say that?”  
  
“’Cause it’s true?” Dean says. “The angels pulled me out of hell for a reason, Sam. I guess torturing demons is on my to-do list.”  
  
Sam grips his hands into the soft plush of the chair. He knows that can’t be true. Torturing Alastair was a stupid mistake made by two messed up angels. Nothing more. No greater purpose. No way. The God he prays to wouldn’t ask that of Dean, of anyone. “You don’t have to do it.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. “Wish that was true.”  
  
Sam doesn’t know what to say. He wants to find Castiel and demand to know why they would do something like this to anyone. They have to have other angels trained to interrogate and torture demons, and if they don’t, they should fucking well start. Sam saw the way Dean reacted to coming back from Hell. He listened to the explanation, he saw the tears. The angels didn’t witness any of that. They don’t know the half of what Dean had to go through.  
  
In all honesty, Sam doesn’t think he does either. He picks up his coffee cup and takes another sip.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean only stays in the hospital for two days before they kick him out with well wishes to report back with any headaches, nausea, or sleeping disturbances. He doesn’t tell them that’s all par for the course of living the life he does, and bids farewell to Bothwell General.  
  
“I’m driving,” he says to Sam, and sticks out his hand for the keys.  
  
Sam doesn’t reach into his pockets. “Doctors said you shouldn’t.”  
  
He’s driven with worse. “Gimme my keys.”  
  
“I’m driving,” Sam says, rounding the impala to the driver’s side door. “Got something to show you. C’mon.”  
  
Dean begrudgingly gets into the passenger seat but refuses to look at Sam. Instead he trains his eyes out the window and watches the stores fly by, following with the residential build up where everyone has either a white or green picket fence and flower garden lining the perimeter. It’s the exact replica of a street they stayed in with Dad about fifteen years ago. Only that time it was for a hunt. This time Dean’s got no idea why Sam’s taking him this way, considering the freeway is in the opposite direction. But he won’t say anything, because he’s still pissed.  
  
The houses eventually become more spread out, separated by lines of trees. He’s starting to think Sam’s just too stupid to read a map and has decided to take the long way out of the state. He’ll let Sam attempt it, laugh when he gets them lost, and take over the wheel. Sometimes Deam can have patience. When it’s needed.  
  
Sam rounds another corner and slows the impala to a crawl. They pass another two houses before Dean gives up on the silent treatment. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Uh.” Sam looks distracted. He cranes his head to look out the passenger side window. “Somewhere. This street.”  
  
“Where is somewhere?” If they’re going to see the angels, so help him God.  
  
“I bought a house.”  
  
Sam’s words stop bring Dean’s thoughts to a dead hault. He turns to stare at Sam. “You did  _what_?”  
  
“Yeah, uh.” Sam smiles a little then shrugs. “Thought it’d be good, you know?”  
  
“No, I don’t  _know_.” Dean pauses, but his mind doesn’t come up with any answers. “You bought a  _house_?”  
  
“That’s what I said.” Sam stops the impala and thrusts his head in Dean’s direction. “See.”  
  
Dean turns slowly, sure this has to be a joke. If not, well he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but it certainly won’t be good for the signs and symptoms he’s supposed to be looking out for. There  _is_  a house directly opposite them. He thinks it’s meant to be blue, but there’s so much paint chipped away he can see the wood underneath and what he can’t see has tree branches suffocating the building. Dean stares blankly at the house until Sam puts a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Just trust me, okay?”  
  
Yeah. No. Not about to happen, but he does follow Sam out of the car and across the street. The closer they get to the house, the more he takes notice of the overgrown plants — vines really, like a fucking jungle — that slither along the drive.  
  
It’s got to be a weird dream. No way Sam would buy a house. They have to hunt and save people — save angels now, apparently. Dean thinks that’s why he was brought back; to play foot-soldier to the winged bastards. Then they’ll throw him back downstairs when everything is all said and done. He shivers.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
 _No._  
  
  
  
  
  
When the realtor showed Sam this property, every word that came from her mouth was laced with chagrin. He thinks she must have been new, or being punished for lack of sales during the financial year. Either way, her description of each room or feature was followed with either a grimace or an apology.  
  
Sam tried not to smile too much. The worse-off this house was, the better for him and Dean. He needed inexpensive; there was only so much money you could borrow under a fake identity and keep hidden long-term. Though whether or not this would be a long-term thing was still up for debate. He doesn’t like to think too much about the future, they have enough going on in the present.  
  
“Ready to share with the class, Sammy?”  
  
Dean’s in what the realtor described as the living room, but looks more like a glorified closet. He’s lifting sheets that cover the furniture — couch, bookshelf, tv cabinet — and remnants of dust float through the air. He should’ve cleaned better before bringing Dean here, but at least the kitchen is swept and fully stocked, Sam going to the local supermarket and buying everything in the camping supply section. He wasn’t even sure if they’d have electricity or gas, but came back to find the gas in the kitchen working at least. Now Sam stirs the chilli on the tiny, two-burner stove.  
  
“What else do you wanna know?” Sam asks. “I bought the house, we’re staying here for awhile. All there is to it.”  
  
“Is this a hunt or something? I’d say April Fools, but you’re about two months too early, so I got nothing.” Dean slaps his hands down against his thighs and walks into the kitchen. “Feel free to enlighten me.”  
  
Sam turns off the heat and gets out two bowls. A sale on crockery, two of everything. It was the first time in his life he’d walked through Macey’s without pocketing anything. Even when he lived with Jess he left all the in-home purchases to her. It was interesting, to say the least. “Nothing to enlighten about. A house, Dean. Want me to grab you a dictionary?”  
  
Dean glares at him and leans against the bench. Sam can feel Dean’s gaze as he bends down to get spoons from the drawer that sticks no matter how many times he opened and closed yesterday, thinking on some off-chance that would be the fix. The house needs a lot of work. Sam knows that, he knew that from the moment he stepped foot inside.  
  
Maybe that’s just what they need.  
  
“Okay,” Dean says from behind him. “Okay. So, let’s say I buy that you had an early-midlife crisis and bought a freaking  _house_.” He splutters on the word, and Sam’s tempted to laugh. “Let’s say I believe you. Why?”  
  
Sam slowly starts spooning chilli into the bowls, deliberately not answering Dean. He knows why they’re here, he just doesn’t think Dean would accept what he has to say. The explanation that Sam watched Dean’s reaction to Alastair and saw how terrified he was, at least until he brought back the walls he’s slowly built over the years. Sometimes Sam can’t see anything in his brother, and that’s scarier than the fear.  
  
“Reasons,” Sam says eventually. “Now eat.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“Only bedroom we can sleep in,” Sam says after he manages to shove open the door. It creaked and groaned and Dean was sure the whole house was about to collapse on itself.  
  
It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask why this is the only room, but he bites down and chooses not to. Considering the rest of the house, Dean’s sure the roof has fallen in or the floor has given way. Sam has twenty-four freaking hours to explain why he bought this dump or Dean’s gone, he’s serious on that. He’ll jump in his car, find his way to Vegas, and hide at the craps table until Cas and his cronies catch up. Like Bela told him once upon a time: we’re all going to Hell, might as well enjoy the ride.  
  
“So where are you sleeping?” Dean asks anyway.  
  
The other bedroom could be better, with Sam keeping it all to himself, but somehow Dean doubts it. Sam has been giving him weird looks all day, like Dean’s about to explode or go off the rails. He decides the doctor had just gotten to Sam with her constant barrage of needing to monitor and check for signs. Dean feels fine, completely fine. They should be out hunting. After all those years ( _months_ , Sam said, but Dean just can’t believe it) he was out of action, there has to be so many people left to save.  
  
“Couch,” Sam says. “Bought a few extra blankets along with the sheets. Which are clean, by the way.”  
  
“If you bought them I’d hope so.” The white sheets match the walls, minus the water damage. Dean takes another step into the room, looks up and sees how low the roof is. Looks like it’s almost caving in. He halts and refuses to go further. “Why don’t  _you_ sleep here?”  
  
“You’ve been in the hospital.” Sam shrugs. “If you really prefer the couch, it’s all yours.”  
  
Dean stares harder at the ceiling, but it’s impossible to tell if the lines are part of the decor or proof it’s about to come tumbling down. He looks back at Sam. “What about the attic?”  
  
“Attic?”  
  
Sam’s either blind or playing dumb. Dean saw the attic when they were outside, a tiny little window smack-bang in the center of the roof. It was about the only part of the house that wasn’t attacked with vines.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says slowly. “The attic.”  
  
Sam creases his brows and, okay, maybe he’s not playing dumb. Dean’s not sure if a blind brother is better. “Oh,” Sam says suddenly. “Dude, that’s more like a crawl-space.”  
  
“So?” Of all the things Sam could think to find weird, he chooses  _this_? They’ve spent weeks at a time sleeping in the car, months hauled up in matchbox motel bedrooms, even days in smaller places with Dad’s wacky training regimes. Dean can deal with a crawl-space.  
  
“You sure?”  
  
Dean nods. It’s not like he’s staying for more than twenty-four hours.  
  
  
  
  
  
He forgets where he is.  
  
Waking up in a house is almost like a dream, the ones he’s had for as long as he can remember. A  _real_ life that doesn’t involve werewolves or ghosts or demons, or brothers selling their souls and spending four months down below.  
  
He knows it’s not a dream when he rolls over and his body hits the solid wood floor. He coughs, splutters, chokes against the dust he still hasn’t cleaned because he bought sheets instead of a broom. Sam groans and leans back against the couch arm. He never did make it into the bedroom, too far away from the attic stairwell.  
  
He waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark and his mind to remember that, yeah, this is the house he bought and not a kidnapper’s lair or torture chamber. Eventually his breathing returns to normal, and his eyes adjust enough that he can see the living room he’s sitting in. Still almost bare, with sheets from the furniture covering half the floor. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s in serious need of washing.  
  
He doesn’t know why they’re here.  
  
Everything made more sense when Dean was in the hospital. Sam saw his brother in the bed, and all he could think about was how they can’t keep travelling across the country hunting things that served to remind Dean of everything that’s happened. Sam sees the look Dean gets in his eye, the way he still wakes from nightmares. Sam’s even seen the crushed cigarette packets hidden with the empty bottles of cheap rum and whiskey.  
  
But here. Here in the dark. Here it all still seems like a really absurd dream. The choice was too spontaneous for Sam. Maybe he’d buy Dean doing something like this, but spontaneity for Dean means taking them to a strip bar or driving to Los Angeles to gatecrash a Lindsay Lohan party. Buying a house is too normal in a world where they’re anything but.  
  
Sam pulls himself to his feet and goes into the kitchen. The pipe’s groan and creak as he fills a cup and he winces, hoping Dean won’t wake. He still doesn’t know what woke himself in the first place. It’s not being on an unfamiliar couch, he can sleep anywhere. It’s something he learnt from a life on the road, going in and out of rental houses and motel rooms. He looks around, trying to remember where he left the flashlights. If he woke up because there’s something in here…  
  
He hears sounds coming from the crawl-space-turned-Dean’s-room, followed by a low “fuck”. Sam drops the cup and it clatters into the sink before turning to run up the narrow stairwell, but pauses. He’s probably just being stupid. They’re practically in the middle of nowhere and Sam covered his tracks, made sure to coat every entrance into the house with salt and there are charms hanging from every door. Safe. They should be safe.  
  
“Dean?” he calls because he has to be sure.  
  
No response. He takes a few steps upward.  
  
“Dean, are you okay?”  
  
Still nothing. A whole range of images go through Sam’s mind, the one front and centre being the angels kidnapping Dean and forcing him to do more of their dirty work. Sam leaps up the remaining stairs, twists the door handle, and shoves it open.  
  
There are no angels. No sound. No light. It’s even darker in here than out in the living room and kitchen, and Sam blinks rapidly until he can make out Dean’s silhouette sitting up on the bed. He goes straight to him.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Dean shoves him away. “Get off me.”  
  
Sam stumbles, nearly falls off the bed, but catches himself and tries to latch onto Dean’s eyes. Dean’s looking the other way, just like in the hospital, and Sam knows he won’t get anything from him. Still, he has to try.  
  
“Nightmare?” he asks.  
  
Dean shakes his head, but Sam doesn’t believe him. He’s watched Dean wake up in the middle of the night for these past few months. Dean shoots up in bed, breathing hard, and then neither of them sleep for the rest of the night. Sam knows nightmares. Sam knows Dean’s been  _having_  nightmares.  
  
“Y’know…” Sam hesitates. He’s not sure if he should say anything. “I bought this place because of that.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Sam swallows over the lump rising in his throat. He shouldn’t have said anything. Now Dean’s going to fade away even more, speak even less. Close off and put up those damn walls he’s been building since they were kids and Sam realised he couldn’t break them down anymore. Only Sam can’t keep his mouth shut. “The nightmares, the angels, all of it. I just thought we needed a break.”  
  
“We don’t need breaks,” Dean says. His voice is low and cold. “I had four months off, it’s time to catch up on business.”  
  
“You were in  _Hell_ , Dean—”  
  
Dean coughs. “I’m tired.”  
  
“Nobody but you expects you to keep going—”  
  
“Go away, Sam.”  
  
Sam reaches out and grips Dean’s shoulder, trying to make him  _see_. Sam doesn’t understand why he can’t. Dean’s not supposed to keep running on empty, and he’s fueled only by booze and this crazy, fucked-up need to save everyone. All Sam knows is that Dean can’t save  _one_  if he can’t even save himself.  
  
Dean tears himself away from Sam’s grasp. “Get out.”  
  
It’s too dark. He still can’t find Dean’s eyes. He can’t beg him with his words, he can’t convince him with his looks. So he just goes. Gives up, gives in.  
  
He hates himself for it.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes he manages to forget when he’s awake.  
  
If he keeps his mind busy with hunts or watching out for Sam, it’s just like things never changed. They get in the car. They drive. Sam bitches about being a freak and Dean turns the music up way too loud to block him out, but secretly still listens. If he’s interviewing the vic’s family he can imagine he’s a run-o-the-mill cop with no other backstory than a crappy family life and nothing to go home to. They keep driving.  
  
They can’t drive fast enough or far enough to escape it all. Dean keeps remembering.  
  
Hell had clouds. Green and black. Impossible to see through unless it was Alastair coming toward him, always brandishing that curved, serrated sword. Dean can still feel it, every mark. Can hear Alastair’s voice in his ear, taste his breath.  
  
Dean couldn’t breathe on the rack most of the time. He’d choke and try to find his lungs but couldn’t. Alastair would laugh, and it’s a sound that managed to perforate through Dean. It would echo in his mind and through his body that was already torn to shreds.  
  
“ _How about it, Dean? All of this can stop. All you have to do is say yes.”_  
  
Alastair found this way to twist the knife in small, deliberate circles all the way up Dean’s body.  _Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull._  Dean can feel it now, feel it in his sleep. He knows he’s dreaming, but he can’t wake up.  
  
“ _You can step off this rack. Right now. Give a little payback.”_  
  
 _Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull._  
  
The knife moves up his body. To his chest. He can hear his ribs snap. He can feel the crunch. Alastair is staring into his eyes.  
  
“ _Come on, Dean. You can’t keep this up forever.”_  
  
A sudden pull of the knife, through the centre of his body, then out. Alastair holds it up and it’s dripping with blood. He traces it against the skin he hasn’t destroyed. His eyes never leave Dean’s.  
  
“ _Not sure if you know, Dean-o, but that mind of yours? It’s like an encyclopedia. All neatly categorised for me to read.”_  
  
Dean makes a choked off sound, his throat filled with blood. He wants to speak, to know exactly what Alastair’s talking about, but it’s impossible. An invisible gag. The blade keeps running up and down his chest.  
  
“ _Like little Sammy. That has to be my_ favourite  _chapter.”_  
  
Little stabs of the blade up and down, leaving shallow gashes that sting. The pain feels so real, and Dean can’t wake up. Wants to so badly when he hears Sam’s name, because he knows what’s coming next.  
  
“ _Does he know, Dean? I can’t find that footnote.”_  
  
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. He chants it over and over again.  
  
“ _Ah. Well, I guess not. Now he’ll never have a chance.”_  
  
He slides the knife right down the centre of Dean’s body, and Dean can hear the sound of flesh being ripped apart.  
  
“ _Last chance, or we’ll just keep going.”_ He shoves the knife into Dean’s stomach. “ _And going.”_ Again. “ _And going.”_ Again.  
  
“ _Yes!”_  Dean’s voice is gurgled with blood and he tastes it on his tongue. Vile, bitter, not all his. “ _Yes, you evil son of a bitch, I’ll do it.”_  
  
When Alastair undoes the hooks that tear out chunks of his flesh and Dean becomes whole again, he wakes up.  
  
His head is pounding and his body feels cold. He can still feel the blade running across it, the blade that must have been made of ice. So, so cold it burnt. Dean rips off his blankets and tears at his shirt. Afternoon sunlight from the open attic window hits his skin, but he still has to trace his hands over his chest and stomach to that it’s smooth and unmarred —  _whole_. Even though it’s a dream, it never stops feeling any less real.  
  
There’s half a bottle of whiskey on the old armoire, one of the only things that fits in the attic apart from the bed. He tips his head back, downs it, doesn’t even feel it moving over his throat. It doesn’t burn anymore. Not like the feeling of the blade across his chest, and there’s not enough alcohol in the world to make that feeling go away.  
  
He can hear sounds outside, and the pounding in his head subsides just enough to make out that it’s hammering. What the fuck is Sam doing now? Dean pulls himself to his feet and goes outside to find his brother.  
  
The sun is blinding out there. It hits Dean right in the eyes and he blinks against the little white dots obscuring his vision. He sees Sam on a ladder against the side of the house. There’s a hammer in his hand, just like Dean suspected, and when he looks down he sees an entire toolkit on the ground. Again, what the fuck is Sam doing?  
  
“Guttering,” Sam says, answering Dean’s unasked question. Dean figures his face gave enough away.  
  
“Why?” Okay, dumb question. The white guttering around the entire front of the house is either hanging down or gone completely.  
  
“Needs fixing,” Sam answers.  
  
“No rain,” Dean says. It’s a weak comment at best.  
  
Sam starts moving down the ladder, and he blocks the sun enough that Dean can take his hand away from his face.  
  
“Summer storms in a few months,” Sam says. He jumps from the second ladder rung. “Then snow — might as well start early.”  
  
Dean takes a step back from Sam.  _Months?_ They won’t be here in  _months_. And it’s freaking  _February_ , snow won’t hit Wyoming until at least October. He’s got no idea what Sam’s playing at. “We won’t be here in  _months_ ,” is all he can manage to say.  
  
He sees Sam bite down on his lip. “Yeah,” he says, then looks away. “I guess not.”  
  
  
  
  
  
It takes Sam four hours to finish the bulk of the guttering and, he must say, he’s pretty proud of himself. Especially considering he’s never done anything like that in his life and the internet proved only vaguely helpful. There’s still places along the back that he doesn’t even want to think about — will probably need a professional, when they can manage more money with a new credit card — but for now things are working.  
  
Well, the material things.  
  
Dean sits at the table and picks at the sandwich that was pulled together from all their leftovers: peanut butter, onion rings, and Cap’n Crunch cereal. And Dean gives him crap for peanut butter and banana. Apparently it’s the texture that makes it, only Dean’s taken maybe two bites since they’ve been inside and Sam doubts that number is going to rise.  
  
Sam sits across from Dean, his own appetite gone. “You alright?”  
  
“Why do you keep asking me that?”  
  
Sam isn’t entirely sure, it’s not like it’s gotten them anywhere. Still, it feels like something he should do. At least to let Dean knows he’s there.  
  
“Just want you to be okay,” he offers.  
  
“I’m fine,” Dean says. He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite that can’t really be considered a bite. He doesn’t swallow for a long time. When Sam catches himself watching he looks away quickly. “Really, Sam.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.” Sam doesn’t believe him at all.  
  
Ever since Dean told him about Hell, Sam’s wanted to know more. It makes him feel guilty, but it’s a niggling thought that never leaves. He dreams about Dean’s torture — about Dean  _torturing._ Those dreams replace the ones about his brother being ripped apart by hellhounds and Sam’s not sure which is better, but he needs to know his imagination is nowhere near as bad as the truth. He knows Dean could never really torture anyone, not if they didn’t deserve it. And, despite what Dean might say, Sam knows he didn’t like it.  
  
He doesn’t know what comes over him, but he just has to reach out. Has to press his hand against Dean’s arm, almost gripping his fingers into the sun-heated skin. He stares into Dean’s eyes like he couldn’t last night. “We can do this,” Sam says.  
  
Dean looks at him for a long while with an unreadable expression on his face, and Sam thinks he’s made some terrible mistake. He has no idea how or why, but the thought runs cold over his body. Before he can pull his hand away Dean jumps from his seat and yanks his entire body in the opposite direction.  
  
“Gonna go get the paper,” he says. His voice is like his expression, and Sam has no idea what Dean’s thinking. “You better hope I find a hunt — that’s the only thing that would make you buy a fucking house, right?”  
  
Sam doesn’t get an answer in before Dean’s out the door.  
  
  
  
  
  
There’s clouds overhead when Dean walks outside. They block the sun so it’s nothing more than the faintest of rays hitting the house, the road, Dean’s car.  
  
He gets in, twists the keys in the engine, and listens to her purr to life. He closes his eyes to listen and feel, letting the car envelop him in a way nothing else can. Not even Sam on his best day. Well maybe he’d be a contender, but not today. Not since Sam bought this house and won’t share why.  
  
Dean backs the car out the driveway and just drives. Past the  _Welcome to the Town_  sign and he doesn't stop.  
  
  
  


It’s dark outside and Dean still isn’t back. The streetlight flickers and Sam’s not sure if that’s because the wiring is shoddy, or if…No. No way. Sam shakes his head.  
  
He’s waiting to hear a car, any car. Mostly the Impala. He’s trained his ears to her exact sound and needs to hear it again. Dean’s been gone almost twelve hours, and anything could have happened. The one thing that always traps Sam’s thoughts is the angels.  
  
As far as Sam knows, they still haven’t found who’s been killing them. Maybe it is a demon. Some rogue demon who has taken killing angels into its own hands. Maybe the angels have found it and will use Dean to get the information, force Dean to torture and relive his own time of being tortured. Sam should really call the cops, report the car stolen. Dean would kick his ass when he came back, but it doesn’t matter. Not if they find him.  
  
It’s then he hears the distinct rumbling that has been his homing beacon throughout life. He throws the door open as lights illuminate the house and the Impala comes to a stop. The lights disappear and it becomes dark again.  
  
“Where were you?” Sam demands, blindly finding his way down the steps and walking toward Dean’s outline.  
  
“Driving,” Dean says. Sam can make out his face with the faint glow of the nearby streetlight. He doesn’t look happy. “Needed some air.”  
  
“You have a cell. Why the hell didn’t you pick up?”  
  
Something flickers over Dean’s face. “Didn’t hear it.”  
  
Dean brushes past Sam and walks into the house, slamming the door behind him. Sam pulls himself together from where he stands frozen, not sure if it’s relief or anger filling him, before following Dean inside. The door slams again, but this time under his strength.  
  
“You can’t just go like that,” Sam says, following Dean into the kitchen where he’s digging through the refrigerator.  
  
“Yeah, I can,” Dean says. He doesn’t turn to look at Sam and keeps rummaging. “We got any of those mini pies left?”  
  
Sam feels anger flow through his body and he stalks across the room. Dean turns, shuts the fridge, but Sam crowds into him and won’t let him move.  
  
“I thought the angels took you,” he says, voice quieter than he intended.  
  
Dean’s got the same cold eyes from earlier today. Blocked off, walled up. Hidden. “Well they didn’t, and if those dicks know what’s good for them, they won’t be back here anytime soon.”  
  
“You really think you can scare them away?”  
  
For a split second Sam thinks he can really see Dean. He can see the fear that clouds his eyes, the uncertainty Dean so rarely lets  _be_  viewed. Sam backs away and gives Dean room to breathe, and the guard is right back up. Sam questions if it was ever really gone at all.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I think I can. Now, about those pies?”  
  
Dean.  _Fucking Dean_. What was Sam thinking buying this place? It’s never going to change anything about his brother. Dean is never going to share what he went through or understand that Dean being dead also hurt Sam.  
  
Sam shakes his head. “No pies.”  
  
“Well, that sucks.” Dean’s voice just sounds flat. “I’m going to bed then.” Sam doesn’t move and Dean can’t get past him. “You mind moving, Sasquatch?”  
  
Sam shakes his head again and tries to find his voice. “I was scared.” The words sounded bad enough in his mind, but out-loud they’re utterly stupid, weak, and downright pathetic. Still, Sam’s chest feels lighter.  
  
Creases appear across Dean’s forehead before they soften out and he licks over his lips. “I know, okay?”  
  
That wasn’t exactly the reaction Sam was expecting.  
  
Dean sighs. It’s a long sound that fills the room. “I’m scared too.” He says the words so quietly Sam’s not sure he hears. “I don’t wanna go back there,Sammy.”  
  
“You’re not,” Sam responds automatically. He’d said the same thing for a year, over and over again until they were ingrained in his mind. He convinced himself that Dean wouldn’t go away. It didn’t pan out quite that way, but things are different now.  
  
“Can’t believe you,” Dean says. His voice is almost back to normal, but there’s the slightest of waivers Sam manages to pick up on. “Didn’t think angels were real a year ago, but here we are.”  
  
“This isn’t the same.” The angels might control a lot, but they don’t control it all. Sam lost Dean once and here is absolutely no way he will let it happen again.  
  
“Maybe.” Dean goes back to being Dean and pushes past Sam. “Going to bed. Gonna try and sleep in. Don’t wake me.”  
  
That’s just code for  _ignore me if I have a nightmare_. But Sam says goodnight and moves enough to let Dean pass. He watches him disappear into the hall before slumping back against the refrigerator.  
  
So that’s that. He gets a piece of honesty from Dean, and manages to do nothing with it. They’re at the same place as before, only now the fear is so much more real because Dean feels it too and Sam’s not actually sure what’s going to happen. If Dean is no use to the angels, does that mean…?  
  
 _No._  
  
Sam flattens his palms against the refrigerator and propels himself off, busying busying himself with the dishes he’s left sitting in the sink. They’ve been there since lunch, when Dean left and Sam thought that maybe his brother was telling the truth about a paper. Only he didn’t, and Sam realises he still doesn’t know exactly where Dean was for half the day. He doesn’t think he’ll ever find out.  
  
The water is scorching under his hands and adds the detergent until bubbles start to form. A few rise and pop in the air as he adds the plates and cutlery and scrubs at them even though they don’t really need scrubbing.  
  
When he lived the few, short years in something of normality he learnt to do most chores. He thought they’d be easy — how much still can  _really_ be involved in sweeping a floor or dusting a cabinet? As it turns out, more than Sam was equipped for. Still, he eventually learnt. Everything except how to do the dishes. Jess always gave him shit for it until she gave in and made sure they had decent plates to eat off. Now it was coming back to bite him in the ass as water sloshed over the edge and dripped onto his sock-covered feet.  
  
Maybe this is what home is supposed to be like.  
  
Later, he finds himself outside Dean’s bedroom door and he doesn’t know why he’s there.  
  
They’re not normal.  _This_ isn’t normal.  _Hunting_  is normal. They’ve flipped the world upside down so  _Stepford Wives_ is the abnormal and killing things that go bump in the night is the line of which all normal is measured by. This house? Sam’s still got no idea. None. He’s floating from day to day, trying to ignore than Dean won’t speak to him about what he wants to hear. He can’t buy a house, fix it up, and expect all their problems to magically disappear.  
  
Though Sam can still live in the delusion where that is  _exactly_ what’s going to happen.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sam’s always outside except when he’s in the other bedroom, working on the ceiling that actually had caved in at one corner. Apparently Sam thinks that all you need to fix it is more dry wall, a power drill and a few thousand pieces of sandpaper. It’s not exactly Dean’s area of expertise either so he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
Mostly.  
  
“I don’t think that’s right,” Dean says, leaning against the doorframe with a cold beer in hand. The condensation is dripping across his thumb. While he watches, plaster sprinkles to the ground like fine snow, painting the green carpet with millions of white flecks.  
  
“It’s working,” Sam grunts.  
  
So it’s working. Still weird. Dean tells Sam as much and gets a withering stare in response before Sam turns away and goes back to attacking the ceiling with more sandpapering. Dean should buy him one of those machines that do it for you, just because if they’re ever gonna get their money back from this place it’ll need to look presentable. A ceiling where one half is lower than the other isn’t going to be anybody’s dream home.  
  
“Is today the day you finally help me?” Sam asks. He drops the piece of gritted yellow cardboard to the floor.  
  
Dean contemplates for a moment. He’s only humoring. ”You’re a control freak, Sammy. No fun to work with.”  
  
Taking a sip of beer, he keeps his eyes on Sam and waits to see a reaction. Usually he tells Dean to go away. Dean would hunt, but Sam’s put an end to that as well and Dean’s too tired to go seek one out himself. It’s no fun, not when Sam is dead-set on fixing up this no-hope place. It’s like he’s losing Sam, and Dean didn’t come back from Hell for that.  
  
“You wanna at least hand me some more screws?”  
  
Another mouthful of the beer. “Nope.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean brought home a TV. Fifteen inches with rabbit ears they have to twist and turn before tuning in to a jumpy, grainy picture. They watch movies most nights, B-grades or teen flicks, occasionally a romantic comedy that Dean says more vampires. When Twilight comes on one night, he quits asking for it.  
  
It’s Sam who stupidly decides to bring up Hell again. On a day when they manage to find a halfway decent movie — The Fly — and Dean’s throwing kernel after kernel of popcorn into his mouth.  
  
“Wanna ask you something,” Sam says, then grimaces. He never has found an eloquent way to press Dean for information.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean’s distracted. At least he doesn’t notice how awkward Sam sounds.  
  
“About Hell.” He’s going for Dean’s approach, getting to the point and spilling it out. He doubts Dean will be so receptive to his own medicine.  
  
Sam sees Dean stiffen. A piece of popcorn misses his mouth and lands with the others back in the bowl.  
  
“Dean,” he tries again.  
  
“What?” Dean asks and his voice holds nothing. “I’ve already told you everything. Want me to rehash? Need a blow by blow?”  
  
He does. He needs to know everything Dean saw, felt, was subjected to. Otherwise Sam doesn’t know what to think. He can’t piece it all together when there’s huge chunks he’s had to create for himself to imagine how demons would torture a spirit instead of a physical body. It’s sick and twisted to want to know, but he can’t make the thoughts stop.  
  
“No,” Sam says instead. “Just. Forty years, how could he—?”  
  
“Thirty,” Dean says.  
  
Sam’s mouth snaps shut.  
  
“If you’re talking about Alastair, I was with him for thirty years. I was torturing for the other ten. Felt like a lot longer.” He picks up his bottle of beer and shrugs. “Maybe it was.”  
  
Dean’s staring at the TV and the light bounces off his face: across his jaw, over the bridge of his nose, and it sometimes makes his eyes glitter. Sam wants to be able to read Dean, he’d give just about anything to do that right now.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam says after he stares for too long.  
  
“Then who’s was it?”  
  
  
  
  
  
He’d never spoken to the souls.  
  
He’d hardly even looked at them.  
  
They were just bodies on a rack, screaming and writhing and begging for him to let them go.  
  
“I didn’t know!” is the most common thing he heard, followed by meaningless repetitions of, “please, please, please”.  
  
By the end of the first year, he’d learnt to block them out.  
  
Alastair handed him a blade the day he says yes. It looked the same as the one he used on Dean’s body and he can get a good look now. He ran his hand over the serrated edge and the pointed tip. This was in him. Ripping and tearing every piece of his flesh.  
  
He turned away from Alastair and back to the soul on the rack. He saw it was a woman with fiery red hair. Didn’t let himself see anything else. He shoved the blade into her chest, and Alastair laughed while she screamed.  
  
  
  
  
  
If he listens late at night, Sam can always pinpoint the exact moment Dean wakes from a nightmare. His feet hit the hardwood floor, then there’s the sound of a glass bottle rolling into the armoire with a thud. Sometimes he hears it topple and fall and Dean swears — a wasted bottle that’s not quite empty, and therefore the most important thing in the entire universe.  
  
Sam’s started counting. Dean goes through at least three bottles of cheap bourbon a day. He’s honestly considering dragging Dean to AA meetings, but knows Dean would up and leave. Probably go pretty far, too. So he just shuts up and watches his brother slowly fade day by day.  
  
Usually the nightmares happen between three and four in the morning. Tonight’s is 03:42 according to Sam’s little digital alarm clock that blinks at him with its nuclear green numbers. He doesn’t go up to see anymore because Dean pushes him away and says he’s fine. Sam knows what he dreams of, but he still doesn’t know exactly what the place looks like.  
  
Sam’s mind continues to fill in the blanks in his own dreams: Hell is red with blood dripping from the walls and Dean is front and center in everything Sam sees. Always strung up, always with Alastair standing in front of him. Sometimes he bleeds, sometimes he screams, but every single time he asks Sam, “Why didn’t you save me?”  
  
Sam doesn’t sleep much after that.  
  
At all times of his waking life, Dean asks about the house. Why do they have it? Why the fuck did Sam think it was a good idea? How many people are dying because they’re not hunting?  
  
“Demons, Sam.” Was the last thing Dean had said before he went to up to his makeshift room tonight. “They’re out there and they’re ripping people apart right now. And don’t get me started on the angels.”  
  
Sam knows Dean doesn’t want a response, so he doesn’t give one. Just like he doesn’t respond to the other questions about why they’re living here. More than that, he doesn’t know how to explain the answers. If he tells Dean he’s worried about him, Dean will completely shut him off. If he tells Dean they need some stability, Dean will just go on a guilt-trip binge about dragging Sam from Stanford. Sam can’t think of another way to explain it, so he just stops trying. He works on fixing the house and lets everything else fall into place. Or at least waits for that to happen.  
  
There’s another sound from the ceiling and Sam closes his eyes, another string of curses. He won’t be able to sleep again.  
  
  
  
  
  
They’ve been in this place three weeks. Three weeks of no hunting and Dean knows the bodies are piling up somewhere. A little voice in the back of his mind says he could be out scouring the local papers right now, but he shuts that voice up with another mouthful of booze. He’s sure Sam would find him and lock him in the attic if he ever tried to leave.  
  
Dean really does attempt to go with Sam’s living plan. He cooks because Sam’s food sucks, and cleans when the dust becomes visible because Sam has a one-track mind of obsessively fixing up the place. Okay, sometimes two tracks; he never shuts up with questions about Hell until all Dean can see are the memories. The blade. That goddamn fucking blade haunts him even when he’s awake.  
  
He’s done with it. If Sam wants to know everything, he can, but he goes to Sam with a disclaimer.  
  
“You can’t ask me anything else,” Dean says, dropping to the couch. It dips drastically, but that’s a given with someone big like Sam sleeping on it for almost a month. He still hasn’t moved into the room, Dean doesn’t ask. “I tell you what I wanna, then you shut up.”  
  
Sam gets with the program pretty quickly. “About...?”  
  
Even the unsaid word manages to send an image flashing through Dean’s mind. He pushes it away. “Told you not to ask questions.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Dean looks at Sam from the corner of his eye. He’s is watching Dean intently from the beat-up old armchair he brought home the other day. Dean thinks it’s probably filled with termites and bed bugs, but Sam always sits in it now when they watch TV. His eyes are fully focused on Dean, and Dean swallows. He shouldn’t be putting all of this on his little brother. Dean’s selfish, just like Sam said when he sold his soul in the first place, but Sam’s the one pushing.  
  
“Alastair had this blade,” Dean says. He can feel how it burnt cold in his hand. “Used to say it was his favourite. Everyday that’s how he started and every night that’s how he ended. Thirty years of that blade in me.” Dean clears his throat and runs a hand over his face. “Then he gave it to me. Said I was his favourite. His best little apprentice.” He pauses. “Y’know, Dad did a better job than me.”  
  
“Dad…” It doesn’t sound like a question, so Dean lets it slide.  
  
He glances at Sam. “Yeah. Alastair’s other toy. Guy sold his soul for me and managed to hold out longer than I ever could…” Dean swipes his hand over his face again and realises he’s crying. It’s stupid. He bows his head so he doesn’t have to look at Sam. “He was saying all this crap about there being a righteous man.” He pauses before asking, “What do you think that means?” Then regrets the words, because he shouldn't be putting any of this shit on Sam.  
  
“I don’t know…” Sam says softly. “We’ll figure it out.”  
  
Dean looks back up, but not at Sam. “I think that’s why the angels wanted me. For being a righteous man. But if they do they’re just idiots. I’m not a righteous man, Sammy. No matter what that means. It’s not me.”  
  
Just like he’d told Castiel. That could be why the angels haven’t come looking for him; they’ve finally realised he’s not the one to do it. Maybe they’ve pulled another soul from the pit and Dean can let one good thing happen out of being weak and afraid. He might have saved someone. That has to count for something, right?  
  
“Forty years,” Sam says softly, as if this is the first time Dean’s told him. “Jesus, Dean—”  
  
Forty years, four months — it was all the same. It was less time than he’d sold his soul for. He was prepared for an eternity of torture and he still wouldn’t take it back. Not when he knows what living would have meant. “End of the day, Sammy, you’re alive and I’m alive. That’s more than we should have.”  
  
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Sam says. Dean finally looks back at his brother. Sam is perched at the edge of his chair, his fingers digging into the arm of the couch. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says, and it doesn’t. Dean still went to Hell and he’s done enough bad crap in his life to deserve it. Maybe it was inevitable that karma would eventually bite him in the ass. At least he won something from this. At least he kept Sam.  
  
“Listen to me.” Sam reaches across and grips Dean’s arm so hard it hurts. “You gotta stop thinking you’re worth nothing. I’m alive because of you, and as much as I hate you for it—” Sam cuts off and the grip he has on Dean’s arm lessens.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, because he knows he should keep talking. “Of course I did. It’s my job, Sammy. That’s never changed.”  
  
“Was it really worth it?” Sam asks. Dean can hardly hear his voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah. It was.”  
  
There’s no response from Sam, and Dean doesn’t know what to say. Sam died. Dean watched it happen. Had to watch his brother — his responsibility, practically his whole fucking world — lie on that bed. How was Dean supposed to live with that? How could he even live with the possibility of Sam going to Hell? He couldn’t do it. Given the opportunity again, he wouldn’t change anything.  
  
Dean reaches out and grasps Sam’s wrist. He turns it over so he can see the palm. A palm that was never forced to hold a blade or torture souls. He stares at Sam, keeping his eyes hard. “What if you went to there?”  
  
“Why would I?” Sam’s voice is still too quiet.  
  
“You forgotten about Azazel already?”  
  
Dean will never forget about that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Wanting to make Sam some kind of messiah, killing their mom, sending their dad on a bloodthirsty rampage of revenge. Even if Azazel is dead, Dean has no idea what that means for Sam. For all he knows, his brother still has throne waiting for him. Alastair hinted as much. Dean can’t let Sam die. He just can’t.  
  
“No,” Sam says. “I haven’t.”  
  
Sam flexes his fingers and Dean drops his eyes, watching as Sam’s fingers close over his palm. He holds Sam’s wrist tighter, pressing his fingers into the skin. The crossroads demon always said if Dean got out of this deal Sam was batter up. It’s been months now, but that doesn’t mean anything. It took months for the angels to really use Dean for anything. Sam could be gone any day. Killed right in front of him. Taken.  
  
“What?” Sam asks.  
  
“I saved you,” Dean says. Then, more to himself, “Didn’t I?”  
  
His eyes snap up to Sam. He needs to know. Needs to hear it and be sure of it, because there’s not much he’s sure of anymore. They’re in this house and they’re not saving people, and if Dean can’t even save Sam—  
  
Sam’s nodding, over and over again. “Yeah, Dean. You did. You shouldn’t have, but you did.”  
  
More than anything, he wants to believe that. Three weeks and nothing’s happened. He doesn’t know why that can’t be enough for him to be sure it’s gonna be okay, but time is different in Hell and probably in Heaven, too. Three weeks was like three hours to Dean. The hellhounds could come any day now. Dean can never really be sure that Sam will still be here when he wakes up.  
  
Sam pulls his wrist away and latches onto Dean’s hand, yanking him forward so he almost falls off the couch. Dean doesn’t know what Sam’s doing until he twists in his seat and lifts up his shirt, forcing Dean’s hand onto the scar. “That,” Sam says. “Means you saved me.”  
  
Dean’s hand pulls away like it’s on fire, and it might as well be. That scar doesn’t mean Dean saved Sam, it means he let Sam die. That was the image Alastair always started with. He made it play over and over and over again behind Dean’s eyes. Every possible angle, but with more blood. So much more blood. “This is why you’re here, Dean,” Alastair had said. “Don’t you want a little payback?”  
  
“And this.” Sam reaches out, latching onto Dean’s arm. Over the handprint he knows is there. Sam presses hard enough to make it throb and heat spreads through his upper arm. “Means you’re saved.”  
  
Dean reaches out, traps his hand in the heavy material of Sam’s jacket. The same one he wore when they were hunting, when they lived a life on the road. It’s been three weeks, but it feels like a whole lifetime. Like moving here has reincarnated them, made them into two different people. Like being tortured was Dean’s purgatory to a new life.  
  
“You and that brother of yours.” Alastair’s voice comes to his mind. He tsks. Loud. The sound booming around Dean’s head. “You really think Daddy would approve?”  
  
Who the fuck cares what Dad would think? If it weren’t for him, Dean would be dead years ago and none of this would’ve happened.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says softly. “Dean, look at me.”  
  
Dean doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t know what he wants. Just to stop being so afraid all the time, to stop thinking something’s going to happen to him or Sam. He twists his fingers harder in Sam’s jacket, letting them grow numb and start aching. Can’t they get a break? Don’t they deserve one after all these years?  
  
Closing his eyes, Dean raises his head and just doesn’t think because thinking’s never gotten them anywhere. He’s surprised at himself for managing to hit Sam’s lips. More surprised when, after a moments hesitation, Sam lets out a soft sound and his mouth opens. Lets Dean’s tongue slide into his mouth and Alastair’s voice is gone. Everything is gone. Except for Sam’s heavy breathing and solid hands that pull Dean’s up off the couch until he’s standing, only having to lean down the smallest amount because Sasquatch is the person he’s kissing and it feels good. Shouldn’t, but does. Dean runs his tongue across Sam’s mouth, tastes him, and there’s no other taste but Sam. Just Sam. The Sam he imagined when he was in Hell and dreaming, when those dreams were good, not the ones about torturing Alastair.  
  
Dean only opens his eyes when Sam pulls back. Sam’s lips are red, wet, and his eyes are a well-known mix of confusion and amusement. Dean kisses him again, quickly, just making sure this isn’t a dream or that Sam didn’t make a horrible, horrible mistake. And it would be horrible — still could be — but Sam kisses back, lips moving over Dean’s, and maybe it isn’t a mistake. Maybe...  
  
“I’m here,” Sam says, his voice strangely hushed, and he takes one of Dean’s hands and presses it against his chest, over his shirt. Dean can still feel Sam’s body heat. “And you’re here and that’s what matters.”  
  
Yeah. Sam’s finally speaking the truth. That is what matters, and if Dean needs to let Sam buy a house for that to happen, then fine. He’ll give him a fucking house and hand him nails and do whatever else Sam wants, because this? This feels exactly like he wanted it to. For longer than he’ll ever admit.  
  
Dean drops his hand and trails it up under Sam’s shirt, trying to find more of that heat. That steadiness. That reality. That knowledge Sam is here, just like he said. Sam presses into the touch, his mouth against Dean’s neck, and hot breath radiating through his body. And, for a minute, Dean just stays there. Slowly moving his fingers in circles against Sam’s ribs, listening to the hitch in his breath when Dean moves them a certain way.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, low by his ear. Before he grips at the nape of Dean’s neck and pushes him backward.  
  
Dean half-trips, half-lowers himself to the couch and Sam follows him down. A warm, solid weight, but not nearly as heavy as Dean remembers holding up after hunts gone wrong. Sam manages to fit perfectly, with one leg between Dean’s and the other still on the floor. Dean tries to pull him further up, fails, and settles for the parts of Sam he can reach. Like his mouth, his throat, his back. But Dean pauses when his hand swipes across Sam’s lower back. Feels the scar tissue again. Remembers.  
  
“Hey,” Sam murmurs, because he knows. He always knows. “You can touch. Doesn’t hurt.”  
  
Or maybe he doesn’t, because that’s not the part bothering Dean. He moves back and looks up at Sam. “How could I let that happen?”  
  
Sam scrunches up his face, confused. “You didn’t — you found me.”  
  
“It was my job,” Dean says. He traces his hand further up Sam’s back, tugging at his shirt. “Azazel should’ve been dead.”  
  
Sam takes hold of Dean’s arm and forces it back, above his head. He runs his free hand up Dean’s other arm, holding it still. “Stop talking like that, okay?”  
  
But it’s true, he wants to say. That was his job. Take care of Sammy, find the thing that killed Mom. His whole life was made up of those lessons. Over and over again Dad repeated them until they become like breathing, or eating, or sleeping. Ingrained in Dean. When he couldn’t live up to either of them it was just as bad as not being able to breathe, or eat, or sleep. It was being suffocated, starved, and exhausted all in one. Hell might have been bad, but not having Sam was worse. Those two days without his brother were worse than all the ones in Hell.  
  
“I promise you,” Sam says. He wraps Dean’s wrists in one of his hands, bringing the other down to run along the side of Dean’s body. They shouldn’t fit like this, not on a couch. Not when they’re supposed to be brothers. But somehow they do. Somehow Sam manages to make it work. “I don’t hold it against you. Never have.”  
  
The guilt doesn’t disappear. Dean doesn’t think it ever will. It’ll just roll around in his stomach each and every day and make every time he sleeps a nightmare. That’s something he has to reconcile himself with, and Sam can’t possibly change it. But fuck, Sam’s hand is moving lower and Dean finds himself arching into it.  
  
“That’s it,” Sam says. “Want this. Want you.”  
  
When Sam’s hand reaches his cock through the denim it’s like a curtain drawing down over Dean’s mind. The guilt is still there but it hides, replaced with a feeling of warmth that radiates from the pit of his stomach all the way upward and outward. He can feel Sam smile against his lips and that’s the best part of this. The absolute best part.  
  
Sam works at Dean’s belt and slides it out of the loops. Shifting just enough to make it possible, and Sam still doesn’t feel heavy. He feels solid and grounds Dean to the here, the now. Another move of his hand to pull at Dean’s fly and slips into his pants. Dean hears himself make a sound from the back of his throat, but doesn’t feel anything except Sam’s hand. Warm, rough, slowly trailing up and down Dean’s cock in long, fluid movements.  
  
“You done this before?”  
  
Sam’s hand twists at the head of his cock, and Dean clenches his fingers. “Uh-uh.”  
  
It doesn’t take him long at all, not with Sam’s hand and body over him. Then Sam bites down on his neck and Dean loses it, coming with a hoarse shout and digging his nails into his palm.  
  
Dean tries to catch his breath as Sam presses wet kisses into the croak of his neck.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Sam wakes up, there’s light streaming through the curtains and Dean snoring softly in exactly the same position Sam last saw him. He smiles as he sits up, can’t help it. This is the first night in months where he hasn’t woken up to the sound of a glass bottle falling or Dean’s feet thudding against the ceiling. Also, Dean didn’t run. He didn’t realise what they’d done and flee. That’s a win, a really big win.  
  
Slowly, Dean stirs. His face moving toward the sun and then grimacing when the lights hits his eyes. Dean blinks and then turn back toward Sam. “Hey,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”  
  
Sam shrugs. “Early. Sun’s still rising.”  
  
Dean yawns before covering his eyes again. “Too early.”  
  
Way too early, but Sam’s not tired. He watches Dean shuffle on the floor, rearranging himself. His jeans are still unbuttoned, zipper still pulled down. Sam licks his lips and looks at Dean’s face again. “Want breakfast?”  
  
“You buying?” Dean manages to sound slightly more awake and drops the arm.  
  
“Making,” Sam says. He doesn’t really want to leave the house, not today, and they have eggs and bacon in the fridge. Sam bought them after becoming bored with cold cereal everyday for the past two weeks.  
  
A smirk flashes across Dean’s face. “I’m good.”  
  
“My cooking’s not that bad.” Granted, he’s hardly been allowed to cook since their first week here. Dean seems to enjoy it and Sam’s not about to put a damper on anything that makes his brother happy. Or keeps his mind off other things.  
  
Dean snorts. “Nope, not at all. Good enough to open a restaurant, Sammy.”  
  
“Bite me,” Sam mutters, then hides his smile. He likes this Dean; he’s missed this Dean.  
  
Dean rolls over onto his back and laces his hands behind his head. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He says, then hauls himself to his feet.  
  
Sam watches as Dean walks out of the room. He’s never really paid attention to the way Dean walks before, and he’s not sure if he should be now. Last night still feels unreal, like a dream. The jury’s out on whether it was a good dream or not, at least until Dean shows he has some memory of it. There’s every possibility this is going to be one of those times they pretend something never happened, like when they pretended they have a normal life where Sam never died and Dean never sold his soul.  
  
End of the day, though, everything came to light.  
  
The pipes don’t creak anymore, not after Sam took a spanner and hammer and went with gut-instinct. Now the water comes smoothly when Dean turns it on and the sound of water hitting porcelain softly makes its way through the house. Sam counts to ten before getting up off the couch and making his way down the hall. He has no idea why he’s doing this when he isn’t even sure of Dean’s reaction, but he has to know. Just like with Dean’s experience in Hell — knowing is still so much better than staying in the dark.  
  
He considers knocking but then thinks fuck it. Less than twelve hours ago, he had his brother’s cock in his hand and Sam’s pretty sure they’ve surpassed the awkward walking-in-on-each-other-in-the-shower stage. So he opens the door and steps in. The room is covered in clouds of steam so humid Sam almost chokes. How Dean survives these types of showers he’ll never know.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Sam manages to break through the overwhelming fog to see Dean’s head peeking out of the shower curtain. Water droplets fall down Dean’s hair and face while he looks at Sam, brows creased. It doesn’t take Sam any more consideration to cross the floor and cup Dean’s jaw in his hands before leaning down and kissing him. He tastes vaguely like soap, but in the scheme of things Sam thinks that doesn’t really matter. He keeps kissing Dean until the taste disappears and is replaced with the nothingness of water. And there, in those small moments, Sam realises it’s definitely not a one-off thing.  
  
“Your shirt’s soaked,” Dean says when they break apart. He’s smirking again.  
  
Shrugging, Sam pulls his jacket and shirt off, letting them fall to the bathroom floor. Without hesitation he follows with his pants and then pushes back the shower curtain and steps into the bathtub.  
  
“That works,” Dean says before gripping Sam’s neck and angling him down for another kiss.  
  
The water runs cold much sooner than Sam likes and he tries to ignore it until he sees small goosebumps rising across Dean’s flesh. “Cold?” he asks even though it’s really a stupid question and Dean shakes his head, just like Sam knew he would. He turns off the tap regardless but doesn’t let Dean get out. Instead he wraps his arms around Dean and refuses to let go.  
  
Just once they deserve something good. With no angels or demons or ghosts or witches. Just them and this crappy house that seems to be turning into something decent, something tangible.  
  
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice slightly muffled under Sam’s arm that may or may not be restricting his airways.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says because, at least at this very moment, they’re okay.

**Author's Note:**

> SOUNDTRACK
> 
> 01\. my love | sia  
> 02\. one | metallica  
> 03\. twenty years | augustansa  
> 04\. wonderwall | ryan adams (oasis cover)  
> 05\. after the storm | mumford & sons  
> 06\. just drive | alistair griffin


End file.
